Damon had been feeling a vague sense of unease before—but now, his danger sense was going wild. A maddening buzz screamed through his skull as the skill went berserk. He fell to his knees, clutching his head, shaking from the overwhelming sensation.
He shut it off. Forcefully.
The others didn't have a danger sense skill. But they had something just as primal—instinct. The kind forged in the fires of survival. And that instinct screamed at them now—warning them that death was imminent…
Or that something far, far worse than death was drawing near.
Damon's mind flickered with the image of that poor soul—the man who had turned part tree. He had failed to answer a question… and met a fate so vile Damon still felt the bile rise in his throat.
He staggered back to his feet.
The mist—the same one that had poured from the lips that once belonged to Valerie Sunwarden—was spreading. Fast.
It had been black at first.
Now it was turning a pale, sickly white.
